have time to give it much thought. As he dropped from the wall he heard a muffled voice call out, âThere he is!â
Immediately shots exploded from the heavy mesquite brush that covered the field between Hawker and the distant greenhouses. Hawker jumped to his feet, ran a zigzag course, then dove into the cover of the wiry mesquite.
Sighting through the Star-Tron scope, Hawker surveyed the field before him.
Had the situation not been so dangerous, Hawker would have smiled at how Williamsâs soldiers stood out in the owlish vision of the Star-Tron.
He could see all six of them very plainly. They knelt or lay in what they thought to be the protective shadows of the mesquite. In the eerie red glow of the Star-Tron Hawker watched what he assumed was the team leader signal for two of his men to move forward.
As they moved Hawker prepared to change positions quickly before calling out to the men, âHey! Freeze right where you are and listen, because Iâm only going to say this once. Iâm going to give you assholes one chance to drop your weapons and let me pass, because if you donâtââ
They never allowed him to finish. Heavy weapons fire ripped wildly through the cover, seeking his voice.
Hawker dived, rolled, and dived again before coming up on one knee, the assault rifle at ready.
He had given them their chance to get the hell out alive. And they had refused.
Hawker brought the 135mm Star-Tron to bear on the chest of the leader. Because the Colt Commando is a shortened version of the M-16, its accuracy is not quite as good. It was built for tough in-fighting and tight situations. But Williamsâs soldiers were only about fifty yards away, so Hawkker didnât require pinpoint accuracy. He brought the cross hairs to bear on the team leaderâs chest, squeezed off two careful shots, and the team leader dropped as if he had been magically deboned.
Hawker waited to see if the others had figured out what was going to happen to them.
The heavy return of fire told him they hadnât.â¦
Shooting sitting ducks wasnât Hawkerâs idea of sport. But this wasnât sport. It was war.
One by one, Hawker brought the Star-Tron scope vectoring on each man in the squad, and the 5.56mm slugs smacked through their flesh traveling at eight hundred eighty meters per second, more than twice the speed of sound.
When the dirty work was done, Hawker got to his feet and jogged through the thick mesquite toward the factorylike building in the distance.
From every direction, it seemed, came the haunting wail of sirens. A thin smile touched Hawkerâs sweat-streaked face. Skate Williams had had his big dinner, and he had planned on a night of fun with the pretty litte Indio girl from south of the border. A night of recreation spiced with the perverted allure of rape.
Well, Hawker was going to give him a night of recreation. But the only thing going to be raped was Williamsâs confused little army.
From the woods, now behind him, Hawker could hear the alto hacking of dogs. He knew that the men at Ranch #3 would be on full alert: Stop unknown attacker or attackers from exiting the compound. Those would be the logical orders. But those orders, in reality, were to his advantage.
Hawker thought about it as he ran. The security force from the main ranch would be coming after him in a wave through the woods. But the soldiers from Ranch #3 would probably be spread out around the fence that no doubt enclosed the area. If he could draw all their fire toward the center of the compound, he might be able to find a way to slip out unseen while they traded shots with each other.â¦
It sounded good.
But, as always, he would have to play it by ear.
As Hawker ran he realized, oddly, how much more ⦠alive ⦠he felt in these situations of life and death. His concentration was total. His objective was always perfectly clear. There were no half-truths; no dingy grays of reality.
Immediately shots exploded from the heavy mesquite brush that covered the field between Hawker and the distant greenhouses. Hawker jumped to his feet, ran a zigzag course, then dove into the cover of the wiry mesquite.
Sighting through the Star-Tron scope, Hawker surveyed the field before him.
Had the situation not been so dangerous, Hawker would have smiled at how Williamsâs soldiers stood out in the owlish vision of the Star-Tron.
He could see all six of them very plainly. They knelt or lay in what they thought to be the protective shadows of the mesquite. In the eerie red glow of the Star-Tron Hawker watched what he assumed was the team leader signal for two of his men to move forward.
As they moved Hawker prepared to change positions quickly before calling out to the men, âHey! Freeze right where you are and listen, because Iâm only going to say this once. Iâm going to give you assholes one chance to drop your weapons and let me pass, because if you donâtââ
They never allowed him to finish. Heavy weapons fire ripped wildly through the cover, seeking his voice.
Hawker dived, rolled, and dived again before coming up on one knee, the assault rifle at ready.
He had given them their chance to get the hell out alive. And they had refused.
Hawker brought the 135mm Star-Tron to bear on the chest of the leader. Because the Colt Commando is a shortened version of the M-16, its accuracy is not quite as good. It was built for tough in-fighting and tight situations. But Williamsâs soldiers were only about fifty yards away, so Hawkker didnât require pinpoint accuracy. He brought the cross hairs to bear on the team leaderâs chest, squeezed off two careful shots, and the team leader dropped as if he had been magically deboned.
Hawker waited to see if the others had figured out what was going to happen to them.
The heavy return of fire told him they hadnât.â¦
Shooting sitting ducks wasnât Hawkerâs idea of sport. But this wasnât sport. It was war.
One by one, Hawker brought the Star-Tron scope vectoring on each man in the squad, and the 5.56mm slugs smacked through their flesh traveling at eight hundred eighty meters per second, more than twice the speed of sound.
When the dirty work was done, Hawker got to his feet and jogged through the thick mesquite toward the factorylike building in the distance.
From every direction, it seemed, came the haunting wail of sirens. A thin smile touched Hawkerâs sweat-streaked face. Skate Williams had had his big dinner, and he had planned on a night of fun with the pretty litte Indio girl from south of the border. A night of recreation spiced with the perverted allure of rape.
Well, Hawker was going to give him a night of recreation. But the only thing going to be raped was Williamsâs confused little army.
From the woods, now behind him, Hawker could hear the alto hacking of dogs. He knew that the men at Ranch #3 would be on full alert: Stop unknown attacker or attackers from exiting the compound. Those would be the logical orders. But those orders, in reality, were to his advantage.
Hawker thought about it as he ran. The security force from the main ranch would be coming after him in a wave through the woods. But the soldiers from Ranch #3 would probably be spread out around the fence that no doubt enclosed the area. If he could draw all their fire toward the center of the compound, he might be able to find a way to slip out unseen while they traded shots with each other.â¦
It sounded good.
But, as always, he would have to play it by ear.
As Hawker ran he realized, oddly, how much more ⦠alive ⦠he felt in these situations of life and death. His concentration was total. His objective was always perfectly clear. There were no half-truths; no dingy grays of reality.
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